Feel the Silence
by Shadow Rebirth
Summary: [One-shot. Drabble.] Naruto was never alone. He'd always known it, even if he never consciously acknowledged it. But he knew. How could he not, when he could feel their gazes on him. When he could feel that painful warmth burning in the pit of his stomach.


Title: Feel the Silence  
Author: Shadow Rebirth  
Rating: K+  
Word Count: 611  
First Written: July 19, 2009  
Last Edited: July 23, 2009  
Posted:July 23, 2009  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This work has not been endorsed by Kishimoto Masashi, Shueisha, Viz Media, Shōnen Jump, Studio Pierrot, Aniplex, or any of the others holding copyright or license to the Naruto manga, anime, movies, and products. This is not a commercial work. The author receives no financial gain from its production or distribution. It is available without charge.  
Summary: One-shot. Drabble. Naruto was never alone. He'd always known it, even if he never consciously acknowledged it. But he knew. How could he not, when he _could_ feel their gazes on him. When he caught glimpses of shadows moving in the corners of his vision. When he could feel that painful warmth burning in the pit of his stomach.

A/N: ...Blame eminyet. I was in the middle of editing _In the Breaking_ when I got the inspiration for this one-shot. Not sure how or _why _exactly, but the inspiration came nonetheless. Enjoy!

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Feel the Silence

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Naruto was never alone.

He'd always known it, even if he never consciously acknowledged it. But he knew. How could he not, when he could _feel _their gazes on him. When he caught glimpses of shadows moving in the corners of his vision. When he could feel that painful warmth burning in the back of his mind, in the pit of his stomach.

No, he was never alone.

The villagers were always aware of him, even when they weren't. It was as though his very presence set off some long-forgotten instinct. Bodies would shift as he passed by, heads turn, and hands clench. These reactions were not conscious. In fact, more often than not the villagers didn't see him, didn't even know that he was there.

It was instinct.

They were always aware of him. Their eyes were always on him. He was always watched, always pinned by wary gazes, always _there_.

_They always knew._

And he hated it.

He squirmed beneath their gazes. He turned away, slipped through crowded streets, and tried to be _forgotten_. It never worked. They always knew regardless, always sensed his presence.

_Like a fox in a henhouse._

_Predator._

He yelled. He yelled and screamed—believe it!—and drew attention to himself, because only when they knew consciously that he was there would the turn away. Only then would they avert those burning eyes and ignore him.

And he loved it.

They still knew him, of course. There were still those who watched him suspiciously and scoffed as he passed by, but most were content to ignore him. He reveled in the lack of attention, in the ability to walk down a village street without every eye being drawn to his every motion—or at least in the ability to smile when people stared and then turned their backs.

So he slowly kicked it up a notch. First it was the loud voice, then the exuberant gestures, and finally the bright clothes. Everything was eye catching, designed to draw attention to him. And right in line with reverse psychology, they all turned away.

Finally—_finally_—he was alone. At peace.

And he hated it.

Now they all turned away. Now no one looked. Now everyone scoffed. Now he was annoying, stupid, _dobe_.

Now he was alone and he'd never felt colder in his life. Now he missed the stares, the _acknowledgment._ At least people used to acknowledge that he existed, even if it was with the tenseness in their body language. Now he was nobody. Nothing.

His attempts to garner attention became more desperate, but his plan had worked too well.

He was now eternally "the dobe".

And he still wasn't alone.

It wasn't until he was twelve years old and finally an adult—_young, still so very young_—in the eyes of the law that he understood why.

The Kyuubi no Kitsune.

Eyes of fire and hate and everything wrong in the world.

Even if he was alone, the Kyuubi was still there. It was always there, in the back of his mind, in the pit of his stomach, waiting to swallow him whole. The Kyuubi was a constant guardian—a watchdog, a hell hound, a sentry bathed in blood—and he'd never be free it so long as he lived.

He'd take the Kyuubi to his grave.

Or perhaps it would take _him_ to his grave.

He didn't know if there was a difference anymore.

And what _did_ it matter? It would never change, and why should it? Why would the ending be relevant when the beginning had been set in stone?

He didn't know anymore whether he was laughing joyfully or hysterically. He didn't know whether the tears streaming down his face were from sadness or relief.

Because in the end, he was never alone, not even in the deafening silence.


End file.
